Bitzer rushed over, Mary right behind. Mary’s curls shone like gold leaf in the spring sunshine. Bitzer pumped Fritzi’s hand. “By golly, you’re doing well. What do you hear from Paul?”
“Very little,” she admitted. “He’s traipsing around Europe, I think. He and Julie are expecting a new baby.”
When she asked about Griffith’s hat, Bitzer laughed. “You know actors. Vain as hell. He thinks sunlight will keep him from losing his hair.”
He went back to his meal, but Mary lingered. She checked over her shoulder, turned her head away from Owen, who was regaling a Biograph actress with anecdotes about himself. “I caught the Indian picture, the one where you fall off the horse and cross your eyes.”
Fritzi frowned. “I thought it was a little degrading.”
“Come on. You were hilarious.”
“It isn’t my ambition to be hilarious,” she said with a sniff.
Again Mary observed Owen, then whispered, “What’s degrading—what you should worry about—is appearing opposite that wooden Indian. You can practically smell his conceit. Talk to your director. Demand a different leading man. One who plays to you, not the camera.”
“I doubt they’d replace Owen—” Fritzi began.
“Then maybe you should find a new studio. You’ve got experience. Think about it.” Fritzi had in fact entertained the idea once but dismissed it.
Mary squeezed her hand. “I wish we saw more of each other.”
“So do I.” Despite Mary’s youth, her sweet face, her ability to project an angelic disposition, she was tough and wise, a friend to value. Fritzi watched her hurry back to her company, her curls dancing and bobbing over the collar of her pinafore.
Two weeks after the release of The Lone Indian’s Baby, B.B. Pelzer summoned Fritzi to his new office. It was a sultry afternoon, unusually warm and airless for spring. B.B. didn’t improve the atmosphere with his smelly green cigars. A closed box of them sat in the center of his blotter.
“Fritzi, have a chair, I got something great to show you.” He looked ruddier, and happier, than usual. Always the gentleman, he was buttoned up in a stiff collar and white linen suit and vest. Fritzi sat forward, hands on knees, expectant.
“You like working for Pal?” he asked.
“It certainly is interesting and challenging, Mr. Pelzer.”
“Well, I’m telling you today, you got a great future with us. Magnificent. Here.” He shoved the floridly decorated cigar box to her side of the desk.
“Mr. Pelzer, I don’t smoke.”
He waved. “No cigars in there. Take a look.”
She lifted the lid, decorated with some kind of goddess with a mighty bosom, a shield, and a spear. Puzzled, she peered at two stacks of letters and postal cards banded with red elastics. The letters on top were addressed crudely, one in pencil.
“You don’t need to read ’em, I’ll tell you what’s in ’em. We got the first ones last fall. These people are crazy about the Lone Indian pictures, especially our latest. My wife was right, people are nuts about babies.” With a twinkle he added, “Those letters are asking about the identity of our talent.”
“I’m not surprised. Owen is a very attractive leading man.”
“Forget Owen! Nobody asked about Owen!” He tapped his fingertips on his paunch and grinned like an uncle about to bestow a lavish gift on a favorite niece. “They’re asking who’s the funny one who fights the bad men, falls off the horse, rocks the cradle at the end of the new picture.”
Fritzi caught her breath. Was this some kind of negotiating ploy?
B.B. whacked his palm on his desk; a small cased photograph of ex-president Roosevelt fell over. “Don’t you get what I’m saying? They’re asking, Who’s the gel?”
She laughed, a short, nervous laugh of surprise and disbelief. “Seriously?”
“B. B. Pelzer don’t lie. I’m telling you, Fritzi, they all want to know one thing—who’s the gel? I said to Eddie this morning, next picture we raise you to six dollars a day. Heck, make it six-fifty. Kelly wants to fight about it, I’m ready to go fifteen rounds.”
Home at half past nine, she finished washing her hair and was drawing a bath when the tenant of the first-floor flat pounded on the door to call her to the communal telephone. Her wet hair was dripping, dark and stringy as seaweed. She wrapped a towel around it and ran downstairs.
“Hello? Is this Fritzi Crown?”
“It is. Who’s this?”
“Harry Poland. Your cousin’s friend, remember?”
“I couldn’t forget. You’re the man who’s got half the country stomping.”
“I finally found you,” Harry said in an odd, bubbly voice.
“You’ve been looking?”
“Well, ah, what I mean is, I saw one of your pictures. The Pal office told me where to locate you. May I treat you to supper tomorrow evening?”
Fritzi hesitated. “But, Mr. Poland, aren’t you married?”
“I am, oh yes. I’m not trying to be forward, Miss Crown. I only want to renew acquaintances, express my friendship. My admiration for your talent. What do you say?”
“Well, Mr. Poland—”
“Harry, please.”
“Harry. Since you’re straightforward about it, and you’re also the composer of my favorite song, I’ll say yes.”
They met at Rector’s. He could afford the best restaurants now. Arriving ahead of her, he leaped to his feet and waved from the rail of the second level when she walked in. How grand she looked, smoothly gliding up the staircase behind the maître d’. Her frock and hat were smart and new. He was intoxicated all over again by her blond ringlets, her brown eyes, her smile, her lively expression.
His hand trembled as he took her glove, pressing harder than he intended. Why did he feel such guilt over a simple courtesy? Because he was in love with her?
“You look wonderful,” he said. “I assume your health’s good?”
“Oh, yes, splendid.”
“I saw you in a cowboy picture,” he said after they sat down. “You were grand. Have you done many?”
“Quite a few more than I’d like,” she said with a rueful smile.
“Have you tried out for any plays? Any musicals?”
“Oh, I don’t have a voice for musicals, Harry.”
“Wrong. I remember our picnic. Perhaps your voice isn’t operatic, but it’s strong. You can put over a song.”
Laughing, she opened her menu. “I’ll keep that in mind if all else fails.” She ordered oysters on the half shell, a salad of fresh asparagus, a veal cutlet, and a stein of Crown lager.
He lit a cigarette, straining for nonchalance. “How is Paul?”
“Busy, I expect. I don’t hear from him often. He’s quite the celebrity now that he’s written a book.”
“Oh, I read it. Just fine. I’m so proud to have him as a friend.”
“He feels the same about you. So do we all. You’re doing so well. I said you’re the composer of my favorite song.”
“Which one is that?”
“‘A Girl in Central Park.’”
“Yes, it’s really caught on,” he said, nervously flicking ash from the cigarette. Did she know or even suspect how important she was to its creation? Though aching to tell her, he simply couldn’t. He tried instead to be elliptical. “I wrote it for someone special. Someone very close to me.”
Fritzi’s smile saddened a little. “Your wife. I know you’ve been with her a long time. How is her health?”
“Not good, I’m afraid.”
“No improvement?”
He shook his head, then looked away quickly, sure that she’d discover his secret. Part of him desperately wanted her to discover it. He longed to take her hand, ask her to come with him to the Hotel Mandrake, and let him make love to her. He couldn’t even hint of it. To do so would betray the poor muddled woman in the rest home in Rye.
A second stein of beer overcame some of his shyness. He told her about his plans for his own publishing
company. She confided that she regarded picture making as temporary. Then she described some of her brother Carl’s exploits as a team driver for the famous Barney Oldfield.
“He takes frightful risks, but it’s his nature. I don’t think he’ll ever settle down.”
“He must be very courageous,” Harry said with a note of envy.
“Oh, yes, that’s true.”
Perspiring, his heart beating fast, Harry gazed at her in a dreamy way, conscious of the erection created merely by looking. Out of sight under the table he adjusted his napkin in his lap.
When they left the restaurant, Harry escorted her half a block, then stopped abruptly under the marquee of a darkened theater. He touched her arm.
“I want to say how much I enjoyed being with you. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening more, Fritzi.”
She moved slightly, away from his hand. “Yes, it was delightful, thank you. Now I’d better find a taxi—”
With a sudden move that startled her, he swept his arms around her there in the shadows, heedless of passing pedestrians who stared. For a few blissful seconds he tasted her warm mouth. Then she turned her head, pulled away, gasping.
“Harry, we can’t do that.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” he blurted. “You just don’t know how much I—” Conscience choked off the rest.
She seemed more dismayed than angry. Giving him a curious searching look, she took three rapid steps to the curb and flagged a taxi. Harry handed her into the cab, red-faced but unable to take his gaze from her haunting face. He saw it even after the taxi disappeared southward in the blaze of headlamps and advertising signs.
Fritzi was still puzzling over Harry Poland’s romantic advances as she climbed the stairs to her flat. Although his behavior wasn’t proper for a married man, his interest was flattering and, in the few seconds his mouth touched hers, something had stirred within her. The memory was both pleasurable and slightly embarrassing.
She unlocked the door and stepped in without immediately understanding what her senses told her. A puff of air moved the old lace curtains at the front window overlooking Twenty-second Street. The window was open, bringing in night sounds. A couple arguing; an auto horn; a persistent rhythmic squeak, unfamiliar. Whenever she went out she closed that window and the one in the bedroom, against the possibility of rain or a sudden temperature drop.
She smelled barber’s talc an instant before she saw the silhouetted head, torso, outstretched legs with heels resting on the table holding the talking machine. The hair on her neck stood up.
“Hello, Miss Fritz. Don’t be scared. It’s Pearly Purvis.”
43. Threats
I recognize your voice.” Fritzi’s calm reply qualified as the performance of the week.
“Shut the door. Let’s have some lights.” Purvis sounded affable. With a shaky hand she snapped the switch. The old ceiling fixture, frosted glass flowers cupping the bulbs, lit up an unexpected sight. On the table lay an autumn bouquet of asters, chrysanthemums, goldenrod.
Purvis stood. “Guess you’re surprised to see me.”
“Surprised is hardly the word. How did you open the door?”
He smiled. “You’re asking a man who worked for Pinkerton’s for fifteen years?” He pulled a ring of keys and lock picks from his coat, shook them in the air like a rattle meant to amuse a baby.
He was dressed up like a suitor. He’d shaved closely, and a small clotted cut showed under his ear. His thick silver hair was parted in the center. His suit was a single-breasted tan corduroy with leather elbow patches, his vest fancy maroon silk with a dark green stripe. His brown boots were buffed. The Masonic badge on his watch chain gleamed.
Agitated, she crossed in front of him, to the window overlooking Twenty-second Street. The maddening squeak turned out to be an old rag and bottle man trudging home with his two-wheel cart. She slammed the window so hard the glass hummed.
“Wasn’t that hard to find you,” Purvis went on. “All it takes is five bucks in the hands of the right casting agent. Took me a while to get around to see you, though, what with one thing and another.”
Fritzi kept silent. Her legs felt wobbly, and she hoped she didn’t swoon.
“Fact is, I’m never in any great rush to pay a visit to someone who’s wronged me. Delay a while, it lets them think about it. Anticipate. It was a year and a half before I visited the man who drove me out of the Pinkertons.”
She tried not to show dread in her voice. “What did you do to him?”
“His house burned down, with him and his wife inside.”
“My God.”
“Oh, don’t take on, they escaped. Point is, I never forget. Elephant Pearly. Long memory.” Again the brilliant smile. It chilled her.
“I’ve seen some of your pictures,” he began. “We’ve got things to talk over.”
“We have nothing to discuss. I’d like you to leave, Mr. Purvis.”
“Call me Earl. Or Pearly. Either’s fine.”
“Did you hear what I said? You broke into my room, and I want you out. If you don’t go, I’ll scream my head off.” She improvised. “In acting school they taught us to scream like banshees.”
He frowned, as if he suspected mockery. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, almost handsome when he smiled. But those pale eyes with the tiny nuggets of gold in the pupil were disturbing. “Look, I’m really not here to do you harm.” He pushed back both sides of his coat—no gun harness. “I’d just like us to get acquainted.”
Her legs kept shaking. Mercifully her skirt hid it. “Not I,” she said. “Please leave.”
“Hell, I even brought a peace offering. Those flowers will last forever, they’re silk.”
She had a wild impulse to laugh, but Purvis’s eyes made her think again. “You may keep them, I don’t want them.”
“God, you’re high-handed,” he said, amused. He eased down into the chair. She sat on the sofa because she feared she’d fall over if she didn’t.
“Maybe that’s why I searched for you. I took a fancy to you in Coytesville. It’s a queer thing, because you hurt me pretty bad. And that stunt that set me up”—he jabbed his index fingers toward her face—“listen, I’ve met a lot of tough females, whor—uh, ladies of easy virtue who look out for themselves with knives or hideout guns. But I never saw anything like that before. You did have an unfair advantage, surprise. It wouldn’t happen a second time.”
She unpinned her hat, lay hat and pin beside her. Her hands were clammy.
Purvis crossed his legs. “By rights I should hate you like rat poison. After that bastard Kelly flattened my tires and all of you vamoosed, I did. For about an hour. Then I cooled down and thought it over. You stood up to me. There’s not a lot of men who would do that. You’re a piece of work, Miss Fritzi.”
Her skin crawled. She wondered whether he was altogether right in the head.
“In case you don’t understand yet”—a slightly harder edge in his voice now—“I want to be friends.”
She pointed at the gold band on his fourth finger, right hand. “That’s a wedding ring, isn’t it?”
He touched it. “I keep it for sentiment. She’s long gone. I caught her with another man, a milksop schoolteacher. Of geography, for Christ’s sake, can you feature that?” Fritzi understood why his wife would crave a gentler man—any man besides Purvis.
“I divorced her after she got out of the hospital.” He smiled again, rubbed his knuckles. He wanted her to know exactly what he was capable of. He was one of God’s mistakes. She thought of The Tempest. He was Caliban with a tin badge.
“You aren’t making this too easy, Miss Fritzi.”
“I don’t intend to. I want you to go.”
“When I’m damn good and ready.” He eased himself up, stepped toward the sofa. Her mouth dried. “Get this straight. The patents trust will nail your company, put it out of business. The only question is when. Be my pal and you’ll make it easy on yourself when it happens, know what I’m say
ing?”
As he came near, she flung herself off the sofa, heading for the door. “I’m calling the police.”
He was quick, agile for a man of his build. He stood against the door and grabbed her left arm. He forced the arm back so his knuckles gouged her breast. His warm breath smelled of cloves. Like a suitor… “Come on, be nice. I’m not so bad, am I?”
“You’re a thug and a conceited pig.”
He threw his left hand around her waist, pulled her hips forward against him. She wrenched away, toward the sofa. He held on. “You try that again, I’m liable to break your arm.”
“Purvis, let go. Stop it.”
“Sure, when you give me what I came for.”
“Please don’t,” she moaned, praying she wasn’t overacting. He pushed her backward; the sofa banged the backs of her legs. Uttering muted cries of fright, she groped behind her. He muffled her mouth with his left hand as he wedged his right knee between her legs, making a valley in her skirt. Finally she found the hat pin. With a vicious jab she drove it through corduroy into the side of his leg.
Purvis screeched in pain, and she gave him a shove. He tumbled on his back but sprang up in a second, fisting his hand to strike her. She dodged the blow aimed at her cheek, ran to the cooking alcove. Snatching up a water pitcher, she heaved it at the upper window light. The pane shattered and showered the pavement below.
She ran behind the table. His eyes looked yellow under his brows as he came at her. At the right moment she pushed the table into his left leg, bloodied now, a red wine color. He swore, visibly pale. She leaned out the window. “Police! Murder! Help, help!” She didn’t need acting school to be convincing.
A gentleman with a leashed poodle dog was passing. “You got a problem, lady?”
“There’s a man in here, trying to—”